


Adaptation

by Gehayi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Faith of the Seven, Festivals, Food, Gen, Legends, Pirates, Stories within Stories, Stormlands Culture, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 14:32:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/pseuds/Gehayi
Summary: Rhaelle Targaryen, newly betrothed to Ormund Baratheon as part of a peace treaty, is having difficulty adapting to the Stormlands. Everything is alien to her, and the distance the royal family maintains from everyone is not the practice of the Baratheons.  But a festival and a tale of legendary  heroes might be just what she needs.





	Adaptation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Ten-year-old Rhaelle Targaryen had been relieved when the Thunderstorm--as the brief but bloody rebellion of Lord Lyonel Baratheon, known as the Laughing Storm, was dubbed by minstrels and commons alike--ended quickly, thanks to Ser Duncan the Tall, who had defeated him in single combat. Though she hadn't said so aloud, she'd secretly thought that the whole thing was enormously silly. Why start a war just because her oldest brother had secretly married Jenny of Oldstones instead of Lord Lyonel's daughter Argella? It wasn't as if a war was going to magically unmarry Jenny and Duncan. And her other brothers, Jaehaerys and Daeron, had been betrothed to Celia Tully and Olenna Redwyne for eons, so they couldn't marry Argella either. The rebellion, so far as she could tell, had cost Lord Lyonel the lives of countless loyal nobles and commoners and earned him exactly nothing.

Or so she thought--until her father and two of his guards rode out to meet her as she was exercising her pony, White Cloud, on the grounds of the Red Keep and gently told her that she would, in a month's time, be going to Storm's End to be Ser Lyonel's cupbearer. "And his wife's companion," Father added. "Lady Baratheon--Gywnesse Fossoway, as was--is kind and clever. And has a sense of humor, I've heard, which is even rarer."

 _Cupbearer._ That told her everything. _Wife's companion_ only confirmed it. Cupbearer was a trusted position, for a cupbearer was in a position to slip poison into the drink without the interference of food tasters. And since cupbearers were so trusted, the position was one generally given to women or aristocratic children serving another noble house. Boys who were learning the art of knighthood became cupbearers when they were squires, usually, or just before becoming so. Girls--noble girls, anyway--were traditionally cupbearers to the head of the House they were marrying into.

Deliberately, she dropped White Cloud's reins. She could feel her entire body tensing, and she had no intention of gripping the reins in stone-like fists and hurting her pony's poor mouth.

"Who am I going to marry?" she said in a voice that almost sounded normal. A glance at her father told her, though, that he was not fooled.

"Ormund Baratheon," he replied. "Lord Lyonel's only son. Four years older than you. I've heard no ill of him, if it helps."

 _Not that it would matter if you had,_ Rhaelle thought. Lord Lyonel wanted one of his children to marry a Targaryen, and I'm the only one who isn't betrothed. But still…

"I have to get married at _ten?_ "

At this, Father started, causing his dun gelding to prance in place for a moment. "Perish the thought. I wouldn't dream of that! No, your wedding will be in six or seven years. You'll have time to get to know Ormund, and he you."

"Does Lord Lyonel know that it's going to be in six or seven years?" After all, a bargain wasn't a bargain if both sides didn't know about it.

Father chuckled at this. "Yes," he said, leaning slightly to one side as he placed his hand on hers. "He knows. It's written in the betrothal agreement. You can read it, if you like."

Rhaelle mulled this over for a few moments, envisioning herself in armor, battling all the thorns and brambles of a legal document with her sword and spear. "Can I have a maester explain it to me, too? I don't know that I'll understand all the words." 

"A maester who'll be sent with you, yes. Lord Lyonel's died during the Thunderstorm--his heart gave out, poor old man--and since he and I would like you to be a learned Lady Baratheon someday, I've agreed to send the wisest one I can find. And an equally wise septa, a lady's maid, White Cloud's favorite groom, two of the Kingsguard…you won't be alone, Rhae. I promise."

It sounded like a normal arranged marriage, except…

"Why?" she said at last. "Why does Lord Lyonel get to rebel against the crown and still win the hand of a princess for his son?"

"Geography, I'm afraid," Father said, looking as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. "We need access to the Stormlands' harbors and the Narrow Sea, and I'd prefer it if the Stormlanders were guarding both against pirates. I also need the Marcher lords to protect the Red Mountains; there have been too many invasions of the mountain passes from the south and the west. For the sake of the sea trade, the food ships bring in, and our people's safety, I must convince Lord Lyonel that I am truly sorry that Duncan wed Jenny--for the Kingdoms need the Stormlands' good will more than Lord Lyonel and his loyal supporters need us. If your sister--or one of your brothers--wasn't betrothed, I'd choose one of them, but breaking one betrothal to arrange for another wouldn't improve the situation. It might even lead to another rebellion."

 _And I'm a sincere apology. The only one available._ Rhaelle understood, but it rankled.

"It's not so bad," Father said after a pause that lasted just a hair too long. "You'll be bringing peace with you as an engagement present. Not many can say that."

"What if they hate me for being a Targaryen?" she whispered, not wanting the guards to hear. After all, a Targaryen had unwittingly started this whole thing. What if Ormund hated her for that? What if Lord Lyonel did? What if Lady Baratheon and Lady Argella both decided that they loathed her? So many things could go wrong. And if they did, it wouldn't matter. She'd have to marry Ormund Baratheon anyway.

Father shook his head, his purple eyes meeting her own bluish-purple ones. "Lord Lyonel is angry with your brother and me. He feels that Duncan should never have noticed Jenny and that I should have forced Duncan to repudiate her--though how I could have pushed him any harder, I don't know! But he has no quarrel with you, Rhaelle. He's even agreed to bring you and his family to Summerhall when the weather is warmer. When the rest of us are there."

Summerhall. The Targaryen summer castle in the Stormlands…though she'd never seen it, as she'd never seen summer. She'd been an autumn baby, born just before a six-year winter. Spring--the Red Spring, people called it--had only arrived three years ago. Summerhall was a myth to her, a place out of stories. Even if her parents and brothers and sisters were there, it wouldn't have the right smell, the right scenery, the servants who were family in all but name. It wouldn't be _home_. 

The words trembled on her lips--and then she deliberately gulped them down.

_Once upon a time, dragons could take human form, and they did, wedding the people of Old Valyria. We Targaryens are the blood of the dragon, and a dragon must not be afraid. We are the best, so we must be the bravest of all. For no one can conquer a dragon._

"Thank you, Father," she said quietly, her voice trembling just a little. "That's very considerate of you."

***

Storm's End proved to be better than Rhaelle had expected.

The trip overland was long--almost five hundred miles--but the alternative had been sending by ship, and that would have meant sailing through Shipwrecker Bay. In vain had Lord Lyonel protested that she would sail in the greatest luxury and that the captain and his crew would be the most skilled money could buy. "I won't wager my daughter's life on a bay known for storms, pirates, and jagged rocks," her mother had told Lord Lyonel in a quiet, steely tone. "Riding may take longer, but she'll be safer. Her guards will be able to battle robbers. Swords are no use against stones and storms."

It took much longer, primarily because they had to plan their route by the location of various castles rather than going straight down the Kingsroad; there were no castles along the Kingsroad, and a future bride whose entire party was living off the land would be worse than a plague of locusts. The Stormlands could tolerate a few hunts by what amounted to a royal procession, but not five hundred miles of them. She was supposed to bring peace to the Stormlands, not famine. And if the castles she and her party would visit belonged to two rather wealthy lords who'd helped finance the Thunderstorm…well, that was her father's idea. She wouldn't be expected to know about it, because she was ten.

As a result, the journey was a slow and meandering one--from King's Landing down the Rose Road, then south and east to Felwood Castle, home of House Fell, then across the Wendwater to the Kingsroad, then down the Kingsroad to visit Lord Lucas Buckler of Bronzegate, and finally south to Storm's End. It took nearly two months, and would have lasted for more than three if they'd had seasonal spring rains.

It was not dull, though, because Ormund Baratheon was around. A tall, black-haired, blue-eyed boy who looked as if he'd one day be the image of his muscular father, Ormund spent most of each day squiring for Lord Lyonel or scouting with the guards. However, after the main meal of the day, he would show her what he'd learned about foraging or setting snares or tell her a history tale about the Stormlands. He told her of the heroes Yoren Yronwood and the warrior woman Wylla of Wyl and how King Durran the Young--called the Butcher Boy by his enemies--had forced them to retreat at the battle of the Bloody Pool. Of the ancestress of House Fell who had been a child of the forest and had left when her husband, one of the First Men, had thrown an iron bridle in her direction and accidentally struck her. Of the woods witch known only as the Green Queen, who had ruled the rainwood near Storm's End for a generation. Of the outlaw Fletcher Dick of the Kingswood Brotherhood, finest of archers and ancestor of half the Stormlanders. 

When he was not telling her stories--and Rhaelle couldn't help but notice that guards and servants eagerly listened to Ormund spinning tales, even if they did their best to pretend that they were not paying attention--Ormund sang songs, though not romantic ones. Ballads and sea shanties, most of them. One of his favorites, "Shipwrecker Bay," told of a young boy, Bran the Builder, who built Storm's End to shelter Durran Godsgrief and his wife Elenei, daughter of the sea god and the wind goddess. Elenei had been rendered mortal by her marriage, and her parents expressed their fury as only two old gods could do.

_Bran placed the stones, he wove the spells, until no crack was left,_  
_Till mortal will and mortal skill blocked wrath of gods bereft._  
_But just beyond fair Storm's End's walls, both gods rage to this day;_  
_Beware the wind, beware the sea of old Shipwrecker Bay!_

Lord Lyonel scolded Ormund afterwards, saying that singing of the fury of old gods was not a good omen for a marriage. Rhaelle felt that Ormund hadn't so much as thought of omens. He was simply proud of the castle in which he'd grown up, proud of his homeland, proud of his people. It wasn't typical, she knew, to be courted by your betrothed with a bouquet of stories and songs as he stood before you, wrapped in everything he loved about his kingdom, but it seemed to suit Ormund.

Though perhaps that was a Stormlands trait. Puffing his chest out, Lord Fell had offered their party beef from bulls who had drunk both water and beer, sausages crafted from leeks, onions and cheese ("There won't be any pork available until the autumn," he'd told her, placing three cheese sausages in her trencher, "but don't worry, you won't miss it"), and honey-glazed "speckled bread" filled with raisins and currents that had been soaked overnight in a bitter beverage imported from Yi Ti. Lord Buckler had served "hung vension" ("That's goat ham," Ormund had told her) along with a vegetable stew so thick that Rhaelle's spoon all but stood up by itself and goose boiled with oatmeal, which sounded dreadful but actually gave the fowl a rich, nutty flavor. Both lords had seemed quite pleased at serving her what they deemed to be the best of Stormlands cuisine.

"Wait until we reach Storm's End," Ormund told her once they were safely out of earshot of anyone from Bronzegate. "The fried mussels and baked sea trout are magnificent. And I can't wait to see what you think of laverbread."

"What's laverbread?" Rhaelle asked.

"Bread made with seaweed." A wickedly teasing grin lit his face for a moment. "It's dark green."

***

Ormund, it turned out, was not joking about laverbread. It was one of many things at Storm's End that had been given a sea-centric twist--starting with the gods themselves.

Officially, the Baratheons worshipped the Seven in the castle chapel. It was true, so far as it went, though the Smith's statue was more often called "the Shipbuilder" or "the Navigator," which, Rhaelle allowed, made sense; no crafts were more important to people who lived by the sea. 

But the chapel itself was unexpected. It was bisected, effectively containing two good-sized chapels in one. The left-hand one, which faced inland, was a seven-sided sept containing cushioned seats and kneelers, seven life-sized statues each with its own niche for offerings, and one splendid white marble altar that, so far as Rhaelle could tell, had been carved entirely from one block of stone. The right-hand one, however, resembled a rough-hewn sea cavern, although the swirls of translucent white and pink quartz along the walls were anything but rough. There were no seats in this chapel, only flat brown mats woven of reeds and sea grass. At the far end stood an enormous altar flanked by two black marble statues the size of giants. One was a crowned king with a head and torso of a man but with legs that appeared to be melting into a whale's fluke and with four tentacles for arms. Two of the tentacles gripped a net; one, a knife; and the last, an antique coracle with a fisherman aboard. The other, likewise crowned, had the head and torso of a woman. Like the king, she had no arms. Instead, she had four sets of wings--and the feathers, like her long loose hair, seemed to be rippling in an unseen wind. Ferocity burned in their eyes and expressions. Feeling unsafe even in their presence, Rhaelle shuddered and backed out of the sea cave chapel, not wanting to turn her back on them even for a moment.

"Why are they even here?" she asked Lady Argella. Argella --Duncan's rejected betrothed--was a girl of twelve with black curls and merry grey eyes. "I thought that Bran the Builder's spells were supposed to keep the sea god and the wind goddess from entering the castle at all, and yet--"

"It's not really a chapel," Argella said slowly. "It used to be, once, but now it's more of a dungeon. You can't kill gods, but you can fetter them. Did you see all the swirls on the walls? They're said to be magic, dating from the time of the First Men. The swirls are supposed to sap the gods' rage."

Privately, Rhaelle wondered if anything could sap the pain and fury of gods who had lost their child. She doubted it.

She told Lady Baratheon, who scolded her for entering the wrong chapel with one breath and then brushed off the error as minor with another. As near as she could tell, her actions had been potentially dangerous but inconsequential. Or…well, Lady Baratheon wanted to believe that. It wasn't sensible, but grownups so often weren't.

She did her best to ignore the sensation that a septon should have blessed the sea cavern after her entrance, since no one seemed to want to hear that. Sometimes she even believed it.

Then came the day of the Seafarers' Festival.

Rhaelle had not even considered the possibility of attending, though admittedly she was curious. She had learned from infancy that fairs and festivals demanded too many guards and far, far too much planning. It astonished her, therefore, that Lord Baratheon, Lady Baratheon, Argella, and even Ormund all insisted that she go.

"The people of Storm's End wish to see you," murmured Lord Lyonel, raising an eyebrow at Rhaelle's flummoxed expression. "None have ever seen a princess before, much less one who has come hither to be _their_ princess. If you come to celebrate with them on a day honoring their ancestors and their craft, I believe they would love you for it."

"And it _is_ fun," added Argella, her eyes shining. "If you've never been to a festival like this before, you should go!"

"You will, of course, need guards," said Lady Baratheon, nodding at Ser Alessander Mullendore and Ser Olyvar Cargyll, the two members of the Kingsguard who accompanied her everywhere. "And perhaps a taster, if you wish to eat the fair's food. But that should be enough."

"And I'll go with you," Ormund said with a smile. "Maybe I can win you a prize at one of the games."

Attendance at a fair seemed an odd thing to insist on. Rhaelle knew that if she were back in King's Landing, her parents--as was practical--would be weighing every syllable the Baratheons had just uttered for signs of treachery. Assassins and conspirators were everywhere; that was a fact she'd learned when she was a babe too young to lift her head. Yet despite this, her father, when he was a boy her age, had wandered the Seven Kingdoms with a hedge knight--and had had fun and adventures while doing so.

It seemed grossly unjust that a prince could wander up hill and down dale--with his royal father's permission!--while a princess had to worry whether some self-important killer whose pride meant more to him than a peace treaty would stab her in the back.

On the other hand, she couldn't really believe that the family that had gone to war for lack of a Targaryen spouse wanted to get rid of her. Certainly not before there was an actual marriage. And the Baratheons were asking, not telling. So few people bothered to do that.

And if her father heard about this escapade and exploded in her direction, serve him right. She'd just remind him of all the Dunk and Egg stories she'd grown up hearing and ask him, with a smile, if he'd expected a dragon to turn into a mouse once it flew from its nest.

She glanced at the Baratheons and smiled slowly. "I suppose that there's only one question, then. What do you wear to a fair?"

***

As it turned out, a simple linsey-woolsey gown of deep royal blue-- _azzuri_ , Lady Baratheon told her it was called in the Free Cities. Traditionally, all in attendance had to wear garments of green or blue in honor of the sea and her faithful sailors. Lady Baratheon had decided that it would do no harm for Rhaelle to wear a rich blue. "It suits your complexion," she said. "And it brings out the purple in your eyes to an astonishing degree. If anyone is curious as to who you are, that may help convince them. You do look very Baratheon, my dear."

Though Rhaelle, like her brother Duncan, had inherited Queen Betha's straight black hair, she hadn't thought that there was much resemblance. She said as much.

"To those who know the Targaryens, your heritage is plainly written in your features," Lady Baratheon said. "But many know only that Targaryens have silver hair and purple eyes. Baratheon-black hair is not what they'll be expecting. Here's hoping that they find it a good omen."

 _Omens again._ "Perhaps I should wear my House's colors as well," she offered. "I have red and black hair ribbons--"

But that, it seemed, could not be done, for red and black were taboo colors at this festival. Red signified fire--a nightmarish death for any on shipboard--while black betokened starless nights on which navigation was impossible, mourning, and the presence of the Stranger. To wear either at the Seafarers' Festival was tantamount to ill-wishing every sailor in the Stormlands…whether the wearer knew it or not.

_And I could have done that so easily. And the Stormlanders would have been so angry. They would have believed I'd cursed them on purpose._

For a moment, Rhaelle felt as if a stake-lined pit lay inches from her feet. There were so many unwritten rules, and she didn't know any of them. Anything could turn into a political offense within seconds, and she wouldn't even grasp why.

"Maybe it would be better if I didn't go," she said at last, pressing the toe of her right slipper to the floor and spinning her right ankle around and about. "I could make so many mistakes. I don't want to. But I could."

Lady Baratheon placed her hands on Rhaelle's shoulders and squatted down until she could look Rhaelle in the eye. "There's nothing to fear. The rules for Sailors' Day--it's only the noble houses that call it the Seafarers' Festival--can seem a bit complex if you're new to Storm's End, yes. I felt much the same when I first came here. But they're not truly that bad. You have a dress of the right color, and if you haven't any matching ribbons, white will do just as well. No songs or stories that end tragically are allowed today, but I believe you're fonder of happy endings, anyway. If someone hands you a pair of dice, toss them; they're giving you a chance to improve your luck and theirs. Other than that…" Lady Baratheon shrugged. "It's a fair. Enjoy yourself."

Rhaelle could tell explaining that she'd never been to a fair and didn't know what lay in store would be worse than useless. She would have to take her cues from whoever accompanied her and pray that she wouldn't mess up too badly. But Lady Baratheon was peering at her enquiringly, as if she expected an answer.

Feeling as if her bones were melting into water, Rhaelle nodded. "I will," she lied.

***

The day of the festival began at dawn on the shore. Which meant that for Rhaelle and the Baratheons, the day began well before dawn.

"Today our septon blesses all Stormland boats and ships, both those moored and those at sea," Ormund whispered in the ear of a very sleepy Rhaelle as the family made their way down interminable sets of stairs to the shoreline. "Most people attend, even those who don't worship the Seven."

And indeed, as they joined the Stormlanders flowing beachwards, Rhaelle soon noticed, here and there, people who followed different faiths: men clad in the garb of Iron Islanders on the edge of the crowd, murmuring prayers to the Drowned God; a knot of majestic, silver-gowned women, each one a different shade of brown, whom Ormund whispered were Braavosi from the Temple of the Moonsingers; and, strangest of all, a bald, green-skinned person with pointed teeth who was gripping a silver statue of a finned man with three heads, each of a different fish. Argella spied them first and claimed that they were from the Thousand Islands far to the south, but Lord Lyonel insisted that the Thousand Isles were no more than a myth and the green-skinned person was no more than a well-costumed mummer trying to attract customers on a fair day. Then he told Rhaelle and his children to be silent, for it was nearly time for the service.

Rhaelle braced herself for boredom. Not only was it far too early in the morning to properly pay attention to _anything_ , but services, to her, meant sonorous prayers that sounded like the speeches of actors who didn't care what they were saying. But to her astonishment, Septon Selraes's service was neither long nor drawn out. When he recited examples from holy teaching, he sounded as if he was reporting events he'd seen personally. When he prayed, his tone was earnest, loving and utterly certain, as if he was speaking not to one of the Seven but to a frequently overworked but kindly kinsman who would always do his utmost for family. When he led the congregation in song, the tunes were fast, rollicking ones that a minstrel wouldn't mind humming while the lyrics were hopeful without being so honey-sweet as to set her teeth on edge. 

It had never before occurred to her that religion could be--to anyone save the drearily zealous--enjoyable.

Offerings were given--the best catch or cargo from every boat or ship. Lord Lyonel, to Rhaelle's surprise, gave as well: spices imported from Dorne, barrels of fresh fruit and vegetables from Highgarden, enough beeswax candles to brighten every house in Westeros. Septon Selraes first blessed all the gifts and then all the vessels that had brought them to the Stormlands, imploring the Smith in his Shipbuilder guise to keep the boats and ships watertight and safe from harm and, as the Navigator, to guide captains and crews both in their journeys across seas and rivers and in their journey through life. Then a troop of men--some of them Lord Lyonel's servants, Rhaelle noticed--picked up the offerings and walked away with them. Ormund whispered that most of the food would go to the poor, the sick, the orphaned, and the old. Any left over--and there was always some left over, he assured her--would be crafted into a noonday feast for the impoverished of Storm's End.

The service ended shortly after this. The Baratheons remained nearby for a while, Lord and Lady Baratheon looking calmly pleased, Argella drinking everything in with her gaze, and Ormund greeting just about everyone and introducing her as if it were a matter of course. He knew a surprising number of names. And ages. And name days. Feeling awkward, tense, and ignorant, Rhaelle did her best to imitate him, bleakly certain that the commoners were merely enduring her. She couldn't even blame them. If Duncan had wed Argella as he was pledged to, a Stormlander would have one day been queen. A Targaryen who would one day be Lady of Storm's End wasn't nearly as good.

Eventually--and it seemed to take eternity--the introductions were over. Rhaelle never recalled making her way back to the castle, eating breakfast, donning her festival gown, or braiding her hair; she was lost in a haze of insufficiency. _Argoth the Grey Giant howled outside the walls of Oldtown for decades and Maris the Most Fair didn't so much as tremble. Rose of Red Lake turned into a crane and saved three of the Seven Kingdoms, though she knew she'd have to stay a bird so long that she might forget she was human. Wylla of Wyl fought the Old Ones under the earth to free Yoren Yronwood after the Battle of the Bloody Pool, and she was more wounds than flesh._

_And here I am, shaking after meeting a few strangers._

_Dragons aren't supposed to be afraid. Ever._

She silently accompanied Ormund, Ser Alessander and Ser Olyvar (though no food taster--Lord Lyonel had found the notion that any of his vassals would poison his son or his son's betrothed to be ridiculous), trying to ignore the sensation that she wasn't equal to her task. She liked Ormund. She liked his family. She'd liked the Stormlanders she'd met until now. 

But she didn't know how to talk to strangers who didn't live in a castle. And she didn't know what to do at a fair. She didn't…

She didn't know how to be the prince that the Stormlanders wanted. Ormund's ease and familiarity with his people was a skill she couldn't hope to match. She knew so little and understood even less. Some day she'd wear the wrong colors or forget the wrong person's name and people would be outraged and it would spiral into something like the Blackfyre Rebellions (which had torn Westeros apart and lasted for generations) and it would be _all her fault_.

Ormund either didn't notice her nerves or was pretending not to, for he showed her around the fair with every evidence of enjoyment. He won a ball-toss game and gave his prize--a brass dagger with a mermaid hilt--to her. He bought her a hardtack cake, which was a light brown, hole-speckled apple cake that resembled the biscuit sailors ate on long voyages, and showed her how to cut it into five equal pieces--"four for the wind's quarters and one for the Navigator," he said. "Or one of his helpers." And he tossed the fifth piece to a seagull.

When at last they parted, it was by accident. Ormund spotted a race and dashed off to catch a glimpse of it, Ser Olyvar, on eating one hardtack cake too many, fled to the nearest privy, and Ser Alessander was buying small beer for her and himself when Rhaelle spotted an olive-skinned Tyroshi woman with a cascade of purple tresses who was playing a cittern and singing a raucous ballad. She was the most confident person Rhaelle had ever seen, and that included her mother and older sister.

_If I could just ask her how she does it…_

Rhaelle took one step in the Tyroshi woman's direction, then a second, then a third. She turned back at that point to wave to Ser Alessander and assure him that she wasn't lost--but the alecart he'd been buying from must have moved. She didn't see anyone who eve vaguely resembled him. For a moment, a chill rippled through her.

On the other hand, the Baratheon castle was more than visible, and she knew where the stairs were. So that was all right. Not to mention that right now, she could ask the Tyroshi woman how she managed to be so fearless and Ormund and her guards wouldn't overhear her.

Her heart beating as fast as a hummingbird, Rhaelle sidled over to the woman. "Excuse me," she said politely, "but how have you become so brave?"

The woman gave a boisterous laugh and was clearly about to utter a jest or two before she realized that a child was speaking to her. "You're not here alone, I hope!"

"No. I'm here with family." It was, Rhaelle reflected, true, even if it didn't feel so right now.

The woman favored her with a dubious gaze. "Well, sit yourself down here"--she patted a bench that was more polished half-log than anything else--"until your family comes looking for you."

Rhaelle obeyed.

"And as to that--you wanted to know how I became brave, yes? I can't tell you that, because I don't think I am. I'm just Loesa of Tyrosh. But I can tell you a story about someone I always admired. Someone so unconquerable that she changed the world."

Rhaelle peered at Loesa. "Who was she? A queen? A hero?"

Loesa gave Rhaelle a gap-toothed smile. "A pirate."

That sounded impossible. Pirates, by definition, weren't brave. They were savage robbers, tigers with swords and daggers instead of teeth and claws. "What did _she_ do?" Rhaelle asked, her voice sounding dubious even in her own ears. 

Loesa laughed and strummed an aimless tune.

"Her name, they say, was Nulaza, and she lived in the reign of Erich Durrandon, seventh of his name, somewhere between two and six thousand years ago, when the Andals started arriving in Westeros. Now Erich was fighting off invasions from Dorne and trying to reclaim land from the pirate Justin Milk-Eye, so he paid little mind to the Andals. That is, he paid little mind to Nulaza, one of the Andal scouts. Though almost all of the Andal army was trying to conquer the Vale, Nulaza was sailing near Massey's Hook, trying to map every cove and every rock. 

"It's part of the Crownlands now," Loesa added, "but then--well, King Erich and the pirates both claimed the Hook, though Justin Milk-Eye had an advantage, for his men surrounded the coastline like a choker clasps a slim neck. One night, Nulaza drew too close to the Hook, and the pirates captured her and, before the next dawn, brought her before Justin.

"Justin decided that killing a scout--who might, after all, have valuable knowledge that he could someday use--would be unwise. Instead, he pressed her into service on his flagship, saying she owed him a debt and she could work it off.

"Pirate ships are not gentle places, so it is not strange that Nulaza was not gentled, either. She grew stronger and fiercer, and her heart burned with a bitter hate for the Milk-Eye. But as much as she longed for vengeance, she hungered even more to make things right. For she felt that she had been turned into a traitor by Justin--and though she had had no chance of refusing and had no weapon that could end her life, she felt that she should have done more. So she vowed to slay Justin Milk-Eye, to send all that she knew of the Hook to the Andals in the Vale and then…but her imagination failed her there. She could not imagine a life after captivity and unwilling treason.

"Then one day another woman was placed on the pirate ship. Her name, they say, was Jonquil."

"Jonquil!" Rhaelle echoed. "Like the woman that Florian the Fool loved?"

Loesa chuckled. "Some say that 'Florian the Fool' was the name Nulaza sailed under, for Justin deemed his spy-prisoner a fool indeed, and 'Florian', in Justin's native tongue, meant 'flower-faced'--that is, beautiful. Some tales insist that Justin gave orders that she be forever clad in bells and motley to further drive home that her life was but a jest to amuse him."

"Wait," Rhaelle said, frowning. "I thought that Florian saw Jonquil bathing at Maidenpool."

"Not at Maidenpool," Loesa corrected her, "but in a pool of maidens below deck. Nulaza, it's said, blushed at the sight and handed her cloak to the most commanding of the women, telling her to use it as a privacy screen for the women's safety.

"Some say that Jonquil fell in love with her then and there. Others say that they served together for long and longer, fighting in many battles before they pledged their love to each other. And Nulaza--or Florian--was canny enough to figure out a method that the pirates would not only accept but adopt. 

"They drew up a legal-sounding contract, pledging their lives, their fortunes, and their hope to each other. I believe the 'fortune' part impressed the pirates no end. Then they read the contract aloud, so that none could say that they didn't know what had been said. Finally, they each swore an oath to their gods, vowing to be as wives to one another. Oh, some pirates laughed, but they were dead before morning without a wound or a trace of poisoning. And the rest were so convinced that this was divinely inspired that they adopted the fashion themselves, calling it "the sailors' way."

"The sailors' way spread throughout Justin's fleet," Loesa continued, favoring Rhaelle with an unashamed grin. "Soon enough, the bulk of the pirates were more loyal to each other than to Justin. This, of course, could not be tolerated, and he flew to his ships determined to find out who or what was interfering with his plans. He danced from ship to ship, but he learned nothing. The pirates made certain of that.

"And on the second night after he arrived on his flagship, Nulaza slipped into Justin's cabin as he slept, and stabbed him through his left eye. His _good_ eye. It is _amazing_ how silent a jester can be when you cut the bells from their motley."

Rhaelle chuckled at this. "What about the rest of her vow?" she demanded. "Was that fulfilled too?" 

"So they say," replied Loesa. "Nulaza and Jonquil claimed the flagship as co-captains, and for a week or more, coded messages--all in the name of Florian the Fool--flew to the Andals in the Vale without stopping. But after the last message had been sent, Nulaza and Jonquil vanished, along with most of the fleet. A thousand rumors spread, each more fantastic than the last…but I believe that they simply went in search of a place where they and the other pirates vowed to the sailors' way could live profitably and happily. 

"And so they passed into the mists of legend, despite having slain a pirate, created a new holy rite, and ended a war. Not quite just, though seafarers still practice the sailors' way. Not all; some have turned against it. But there are still plenty who honor it, and who praise Jonquil and Florian."

Rhaelle smiled at this. It _was_ cheering to hear of people who, despite hideous odds, had rearranged reality into something better. _I have to remember that story for when I have children._

(She had no way of knowing that, seven years later, when her brother Daeron wrote to her about breaking his engagement to Olenna Redwyne and, more obliquely, about his constant companion, Ser Jeremy Norridge, she would relay the tale to him, and that Daeron and Jeremy would embrace "the sailors' way"--letting her know after they had taken their vows. Nor could she guess that her youngest grandson Renly would find Daeron's letters and, astonished at how much his grandmother had understood, would show them to the man he himself loved.)

Here and now, there was only the story of two people who had every reason to fear, who had probably felt weak, who had undoubtedly despaired. But they'd won through. And after avenging their honor, they'd gone on to find somewhere wondrous to live. Rhaelle was sure of it. Maybe she could do the same. _I'd like to be as valorous as those two._

Suddenly, she could feel Loesa glancing at her, and when the woman spoke, her tone was uneasy. "You didn't tell me that you had two knights in your family."

Rhaelle thought of her father, her brothers, Ser Duncan the Tall--why, even her betrothed was a knight-in-training. "More than two," she said firmly. "Definitely more than two." 

Then she blinked, realizing what Loesa was saying, peered at her, and followed her gaze. Ser Alessander was tense and red-faced, while Ser Olyvar looked almost ill with fright. Behind them--though only by scant inches--was Ormund, fear and anxiety warring in his expression. For an instant, she felt a twinge of guilt. Then she told herself not to be silly. _After all, they left me._

She stood up on the log bench and waved to them. Within seconds, they were by her side.

"There you are," she said with some relief. "I was getting worried about you. I had no idea where you'd all gotten to."

Ser Alessander blinked at this sudden reversal. Ser Olyvar appeared to be weighing whether it counted as a lie if you knew what someone was doing but not precisely where. Ormund was doing his best to look exasperated while trying not to grin. 

She turned to Loesa, who had turned a sickly yellow at the sight of Ormund. Rhaelle could almost see the cogwheels turning in the woman's head: _But if that's Lord Lyonel's son, then that little girl must be--_

"Would you be horribly insulted," she said, her voice only shaking a bit, "if I thanked you for that story with coin? Because I think it was just what I needed to hear."

Loesa mutely shook her head.

Rhaelle whispered the amount in Ormund's ear--he was holding the money. Ormund's eyebrows escalated almost to his hairline, but Rhaelle nodded firmly. Ormund shrugged, then reached inside his cloak and pulled out an unimpressive brown sack. Untying it, he shook thirteen silver stags into his empty hand and then counted them into Loesa's unresisting palm.

"Ten for the story," he said. "Rhaelle says you more than earned it. And the other three are a thank you from us. And may the Navigator bless you for keeping her safe." He turned toward Rhaelle. "Are you ready to go back home?"

Rhaelle knew the answer she was supposed to give, but the story of Nulaza and Jonquil was still heating her blood. "Maybe not just yet," she said. "I know you've been…" She fumbled for an acceptable euphemism. "…upset. I was upset earlier too. I was terrified of meeting so many new people. But I'm not scared now. I know that looking after someone my age isn't much fun. But do you think that you could introduce me around again? Just…a little slower this time?"

The three exchanged glances, and then nodded.

"Thank you," she said, and smiled. "I'd like to be as good at getting to know people as the Baratheons are."


End file.
